I was in the right, yet despite my ethical stance and stubborn refusal to discuss any aspect of the case with reporters, my colleagues treated me with icy disdain. It was as if it were I, and not my boss, who’d done wrong. And because they avoided me, I had no way to counteract their unspoken contempt. It was crippling.
I’d never before been shunned, and I hoped I never would experience anything like it again. No wonder many cultures use it as a punishment for errant behavior; I could see that it would be a potent tool to ensure conformity.
I’d learned a bitter lesson that year. I’d learned that I couldn’t trust anyone but my father. And he was dead.
Standing at the door, Sasha long since gone, I realized that my sadness was aggravated by stress, hunger, and fatigue. And my growing anger helped still the tears. I was plenty tired of feeling sad, and so I greeted the anger with relief. I shrugged, trying to relax my shoulder and neck muscles, with no success.
I wondered what the Cabots wanted with me, and why it was so urgent. A glimmer of hope that the business might not be lost heightened my curiosity. Still, to cover myself, I called Max as the car warmed up, and got him at home. He sounded tired, but, as always, pleasant and interested.
“Max,” I said. “I’m en route to meet Mr. Grant’s daughter and granddaughter. I figured I ought to let you know.”
“Good. I’m glad you called. What are you meeting them for?”
“I’m not sure. They said they wanted to talk to me about the estate.”
There was a long pause before he asked, matter-of-factly, “That’s a surprise, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I acknowledged.
“Where are you meeting them?”
“A coffee shop in the Sheraton.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Okay. Curious, I guess.”
There was another long pause. “If they ask anything about the murder, don’t answer. Say you don’t know or can’t comment. No matter what.”
“Okay.”
“And call me if you need me, all right?”
“Thanks, Max.”
Max’s palpable concern communicated itself to me. As I drove out of the parking lot, I became fearful that they might blame me for Mr. Grant’s death. Another worry added to the rest.
CHAPTER TEN
I nearly fell asleep driving into Portsmouth. I found myself drifting into a kind of stupor as the taillights in front of me rose and fell, gently undulating with the grade of the road. It was hypnotic. I was hungry, tired, stiff, and worried. When I reached the brightly lit hotel parking lot, I sat for a minute, waiting for a second wind. It didn’t come.
I found the coffee shop, mostly empty at this hour, and stood near the hostess stand, waiting. A large woman with crimped, silver-blue hair approached me.
“I’m supposed to meet the Cabots,” I told her.
“This way, dearie. They’re waiting for you.”
She led me to a table around a corner, past oversized windows and tall palm trees. Two people sat across from each other. One, an attractive woman in her sixties with white wavy hair and an ivory complexion, sipped from a coffee cup. The other, a younger woman of about my age, shook a tall glass of what looked like the dregs of iced tea. I heard the jiggling of the ice as we approached. They sat in stony silence, as if they were strangers.
“Here she is, dearies,” the hostess said as she placed a menu on the table.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott.”
Both women looked at me. I suddenly felt conspicuously underdressed and unkempt. I shouldn’t have come straight from a long day at work. My jeans were dirty and stretched out, my plain-Jane T-shirt was covered by an oversized flannel shirt, and my engineer boots were scuffed.
“I’m Dana Cabot,” the older woman said politely, without warmth. “And my daughter, Andi. Miranda.”
“Hi,” I said.
Mrs. Cabot said, “Please, have a seat.”
The younger woman leaned back and stared at me. She looked and acted angry as she shook her glass, swirling the ice. Switching her attention to the hostess, she said, “I’ll take another.” She took a last, long drink and handed over the glass.
“And for you, dearie?” the hostess asked me.
“Give me a minute,” I answered, sitting down, looking from one to the other. They didn’t look alike. Dana Cabot looked well coiffed, well dressed, and well fed. Her daughter, Andi Cabot, looked sick.
“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Cabot asked.
“No, actually, I haven’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to get something.”
“Of course,” she answered.
I looked at the menu and, surreptitiously, at them. Mrs. Cabot looked like an affluent matron who hadn’t had a lot of worry in her life. Andi was too thin, the kind of thin that comes from a chronic, life-threatening disease, or maybe from doing a lot of drugs over a lot of years. Her eyes were clouded, her skin sallow, and she seemed enveloped in a cloud of resentment. Sitting next to her, I wanted to slide my chair a bit farther away lest I catch whatever ailed her.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “And your grandfather. I hadn’t known him for long, but we’d had many pleasant conversations over the last week or so.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Cabot replied. “My father had many good qualities.” She cleared her throat. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet you.”
“My assistant said you wanted to talk to me about your father’s estate.”
“Yes,” she said, with a glance at Andi. “You saw my father’s house?”
“Yes. Everything is very beautiful. Not just the antiques. Everything. The house, the grounds. Everything,” I said.
She nodded. “It’s funny to be in New Hampshire and staying in a hotel. But we couldn’t stay at the house. Not after…” she trailed off.
“I understand,” I said.
The waiter arrived with Andi’s drink and coffee to refill Mrs. Cabot’s cup. He poured a cup for me, too. I ordered a hamburger, medium, and asked for water, no ice. I wanted a martini, but knew that even one would put me to sleep, facedown in my plate.
Andi shifted impatiently in her chair, continuing to look irritated. I wondered if it was annoyance I was perceiving, or contempt. Maybe she took my sloppy appearance as a personal affront, as if I were indicating that she and her mother weren’t worth the bother of cleaning up.
“I should have mentioned,” I said, “that I came straight from work. Please excuse my appearance.”
“No problem. We understand completely, and are just pleased that you were able to come at all,” Mrs. Cabot said.
I waited for her to continue, wondering if her polite words would mellow Andi’s antipathy. Andi slapped her drink on the table, and opened her eyes wide at her mother. Having caught her attention, Andi wiggled her fingers. Hurry it up, Mother, she seemed to be signaling. Get on with it.
“Did my father talk to you about selling anything?” Mrs. Cabot asked, jumping in.
“Why do you ask?” I was curious about Andi’s role in the family. It almost seemed that Mom was following cues from her daughter.
She sipped her coffee, and I noted that she drank it black. “I need to decide what to do about my father’s estate. I’m trying to learn what my father intended.” She shrugged. “Knowing his plans might help me decide what would be best to do at this point.”
I didn’t see the connection. What did Mr. Grant’s former intention have to do with their current plans? Maybe she was a sentimental sort.
“Are you thinking of selling the contents of the house?” I asked, faking confusion, aware that I was avoiding answering her question. For some reason, it seemed smart to be cagey, but I wasn’t sure why I was having that reaction. Maybe Andi’s impatience and seeming disdain colored my view. Or perhaps it was Max’s warning not to talk about the murder that made me wary. For whatever reason, my gut was telling me that until I knew more about what was going on, I shouldn’t reveal too much.